


Twenty-Four Hours

by Ark



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Casual Sex, Law School, M/M, More Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:09:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1387111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras wakes up all at once, no in-betweens. Next to him Grantaire is still asleep. </p><p>Left to his own devices Grantaire will stay asleep until mid-afternoon. Enjolras has too much work to do to deal with the distraction. But he’s hard and that’s a distraction until it goes away. He rolls over and fits himself to the naked slope of Grantaire’s back.</p><p>Grantaire stirs only minimally. The flutter of eyelashes shows that he’s minimally awake.</p><p>“Can you go again?” Enjolras wants to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-Four Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [barricadeur](http://archiveofourown.org/users/barricadeur) for reading first and [soemily](http//archiveofourown.org/users/goshemily) for magical feedback. Thanks as always to my [tumblrs](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  
> 
> Deep in the heart of where sympathy held sway,  
> Gotta find my destiny, before it gets too late.
> 
> \--Joy Division, "Twenty-Four Hours"

Enjolras wakes up all at once, no in-betweens. Next to him Grantaire is still asleep. 

Left to his own devices Grantaire will stay asleep until mid-afternoon. Enjolras has too much work to do to deal with the distraction. But he’s hard and that’s a distraction until it goes away. He rolls over and fits himself to the naked slope of Grantaire’s back.

Grantaire stirs only minimally. The flutter of eyelashes shows that he’s minimally awake.

“Can you go again?” Enjolras wants to know.

“Yeah, sure. Good morning. Let me--”

“I’ve got it.” The small bottle is already in Enjolras’ hands, his fingers already wet. On “yeah,” they press inside Grantaire. Grantaire is loosened up from last night and takes two fingers easily enough. Three is a given, and Enjolras has to stop from trying four. 

He takes back his hand and uses it to slick his cock. He’s big and long and harder than he should be after the night’s exertions. Maybe letting Grantaire ride him hadn’t been enough. They lie sideways now, so he tries it like this. At least there’s always something new. 

Enjolras teases Grantaire with the pressure from his cock, and once he pushes in he keeps teasing. The first inches and the last of penetration are the most sensitive. This is the way to ensure that Grantaire will tense up, go so tight around Enjolras’ cock. It feels best like this. He delivers short, shallow thrusts until Grantaire cracks the silence to beg for the rest of him.

Sideways affords a good, deep angle, and he doesn’t even have to look at Grantaire, doesn’t have those big blue eyes looking up at him. He fucks into Grantaire, taking him at the pace that feels right; this morning it is fast and pressing. Grantaire takes care of himself, jerking his cock to the rhythm of Enjolras’ thrusts, jerking his hips in time. They’re good at this, at least. Too good. Too easy to come back to.

Enjolras comes, hiding his satisfied exclamation in a bite to Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire shivers and follows him, both of them watching the pearlescent splash across his belly. 

Grantaire is learning. After Enjolras pulls out Grantaire rolls over and gets out of bed. He collects his clothes from where they’re strewn about the room and puts them on, one discovered article at a time. When they first started Enjolras would’ve squeezed his eyes shut and pretended to go back to sleep, but this is old hat now. He props up on his elbows in bed and watches Grantaire.

“You going to Bossuet’s thing tonight?” Grantaire steps into his boxers and pulls them on, covering himself but still looking too debauched -- looking like he’s been fucked hard twice in the space of a few hours, like he has. The t-shirt he tugs down over his head is wrinkled, and the action doesn’t smooth his hair, which springs back into orbit. He wriggles into his jeans, and Enjolras blinks to find the act of dressing seductive. Has to repress the urge to undress again. His fingers flex, make fists.

“I don’t know,” says Enjolras. He hadn’t thought about it much. Bossuet had put his business card into a bowl at a sports-bar and won a free happy hour for his friends, lucky for once. Enjolras isn’t huge on bars; he’d forgotten it was tonight. “What about you?”

“Never met a happy hour I didn’t like,” says Grantaire, focused on stomping his feet into scuffed boots. “Maybe I’ll see you there.” He rakes a hand through his pitch-dark hair, but it still isn’t tamed. He reaches for his leather jacket and swings it on.

“Yeah,” says Enjolras noncommittally. “Maybe.” 

“Later,” says Grantaire, seeing himself out. He’s learning. He’s still impossible. His head is half-turned to shadow. “Thanks for the ride.”

Enjolras hears the door click on Grantaire’s final riposte, then flops back into a pillow. A mistake: it smells like sex, like their hours of fucking. It makes him feel the bruises and bites set into his skin and it makes him want more. Makes him want to run into the hallway and drag Grantaire back inside, or maybe push him into the elevator and push the emergency stop. 

He does neither of these things. He gets up after a moment’s indulgence, strips the bed and tosses the sheets for laundry. Making the bed with fresh linen is a soothing exercise, and Enjolras folds corners with military precision, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. 

The bed made, he sets about cleaning his pocket-sized studio of all traces of Grantaire. There is a half-empty beer bottle that is emptied and recycled, and cigarette stubs to be collected from the flower pot on the fire escape. 

Grantaire gets up sometimes to smoke, and does so as quietly as he can; but the apartment is tiny, and Enjolras always wakes up with him. At first the smoky smell when Grantaire slipped back between the sheets was overpowering, but like many things, Enjolras has grown used to it. 

He sprays air-freshener by the window, and vacuums, then does several reps of pushups and sit-ups and pull-ups, until sweat is drenching his body and running into his eyes. 

Nothing distracts from what he wants. Taking away the evidence doesn’t help. He takes a brutally cold shower and spends the rest of the morning shivering. It feels like penance. Enjolras doesn’t believe in penance.

He’s had no intention of joining Bossuet’s happy hour, but there’s no real reason not to go. It’ll surprise Combeferre and Courfeyrac, always worth the price of admission. He likes his friends and has seen them too infrequently since the semester veered towards finals. He likes rye whiskey and hoppy IPAs in moderation. He likes contemplating what Grantaire’s expression will be like. Grantaire won’t expect him to come. Once he sees Enjolras, though, he’ll wonder if, when, how, and where they’re going back home --

It’s been going on for weeks. More than a month, so that Grantaire has learned to leave without too much chatter in the morning, and Enjolras has learned to keep his door unlocked Friday nights. Sometimes Thursdays. Occasionally a Wednesday or a Monday. There was a Tuesday once. 

What it is is sex, pure and simple. Well, not so pure: there’s an edge to them in bed that is far from gentle and anything but sweet. They are often brusque. They are no-nonsense. They know how they like to fuck and their desires seem aligned therein though they agree on little else. They communicate clearly when they are in the act and barely interact when they are not.

He won’t admit it, but Enjolras can’t remember the last time he has felt so satisfied. The semester’s going well and he’s poised to be at the top of his law school classes. Their political club received funding despite the administration’s misgivings concerning a radical platform and even more radical constitution. And in the last few weeks, Grantaire has been there to take the edge off the raw energy that’s always coursing through Enjolras, seeking outlet. 

He won’t admit it, but the semi-regular sex has been great for clearing his mind and letting him focus on academic and club priorities. Every meeting ends with explosive discussion concerning upcoming OkCupid dates and potential Tinder swipes, talk of in-class crushes and unattainable professors, but Enjolras only has to glance over at Grantaire. It’s not complicated. 

If Grantaire is staring back, he’ll leave the door unlocked. If Grantaire is drawing, headphones in, ignoring him, he won’t. It’s simple. It’s easy. It’s ingenious. It doesn’t have to be pure.

So he decides to go to Bossuet’s bar night. He finishes all his work and then some. Why not? The shower is hot now; Enjolras lets it steam up the whole bathroom. He’s never showered with Grantaire, but Grantaire has showered here. Grantaire sings under the water. If Enjolras picks a show tune and tries it no one will ever know but him and the shampoo. His voice isn’t half bad.

He can't stop thinking that he shouldn't have let Grantaire leave. Grantaire has stood right here, wrapped himself in Enjolras' towels, finger-combing his messy hair. Grantaire refuses combs.

Enjolras dries his hair and spends more time and products than he will ever admit in attaining its style. He stares at himself in the glass, at his torso flecked with the imprint of Grantaire’s fingers and fingernails, the places where the pressure of his lips and teeth turned Enjolras’ skin blue-violet. 

Jeans and a sweater the color of red wine cover up the marks. Heavy black boots, because he wants to be able to hear the click of his heel against the ground, needs to stay grounded. Enjolras considers his stony-eyed reflection and knows that he looks good; it is a new feeling to be nervous about his presentation, and he watches his frown deepen in the mirror as he considers it. 

He rationalizes: he’s not dressing for Grantaire, but if Grantaire appreciates the effort, all the better for Enjolras before the night is through. He shrugs, and the mirror-figure shrugs back.

Enjolras’ appearance at the bar causes a commotion. He shows up mid-hour, when the enthusiastic drinkers have already much imbibed, thrilled at the discount; the rest of them are nearly there. 

Combeferre’s bearhug makes him stagger backwards. Courfeyrac kisses both his cheeks in welcome and his mouth for good measure. There are resounding offers of drinks, and Bossuet insists on a round of shots -- rye whiskey, in Enjolras’ honor. 

Grantaire holds up his glass, and tips up his eyebrow, and toasts Enjolras. He hasn’t moved from the two barstools he’s sharing with Joly and Bossuet, but he hasn’t looked away since Enjolras came in. The flare of his eyes is enough to make up for the neutral expression he manages to maintain. 

Grantaire’s eyes say _well fuck me_

and Enjolras’ say _but I will_

and it is strange, Enjolras thinks, that their friends do not seem to see the way they stare. 

They speak and laugh with others, as is their custom. It is stranger, Enjolras thinks, that he should feel so drawn to Grantaire’s orbit, that he should want to hear the end of Grantaire’s raucous story and buy his next drink, with the happy hour at a close. 

In past gatherings Enjolras has avoided Grantaire’s noisy corners, where Grantaire could be found spinning stories and embroidering tales. Tonight, he wishes the others were not so well-meaning, not such fine conversationalists, that he could find a reason to engage Grantaire, or even call him out, as in the old days.

Grantaire is watching him, considering -- thinking the same, perhaps. Perhaps as ready as Enjolras to be gone. Enjolras tilts his head, and looks at Grantaire over Jehan’s shoulder.

Grantaire’s eyelashes fall against his cheek in perfect Morse code. _S.O.S._

Enjolras almost bursts out laughing, and nearly bites his tongue in half cutting it off. Grantaire’s lips quirk in return. Grantaire winks.

Then he is spinning on his heel, crashing through the crowd towards Enjolras. His lithe form is comprised of thrashing elbows. He lands ungracefully against Jehan, who steadies him with a practiced hand and a sigh. Jehan tries for his hand, but Grantaire is gesturing too quickly to catch. 

“So the benevolent captain graces the crew with his presence!” Grantaire crows, loud enough that the bartender flinches on his behalf. He makes for a clumsy bow. More elbows. “To what do we owe this honor?”

Enjolras flinches on cue, but Grantaire’s eyes are clear, gazing back. It’s an inept escape route, but not a terrible idea, so far as ideas about this sort of thing went. No one else knows that they’re fucking; no one else will see anything here save a revival of their old squabbles.

Enjolras’ spine is quite straight. “You’re drunk, Grantaire. May I buy you a mineral water and a preventative aspirin?”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Grantaire wrinkles his nose, thrusting his glass high into the air. Most of the bar is watching now, loud conversations dimmed to a buzz. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Grantaire proclaims, “I submit to you our chief, come to you in the flesh. It is a rare sight that you are witnessing; he does not usually appear below deck.”

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras, sharply, and gets another wink for his trouble.

“Grantaire,” tries Courfeyrac, stepping forward and nearly ruining everything with a peaceable intervention (Combeferre catches his wrist, and keeps him in place).

“Is he not fair? You wondered, perhaps, why we follow him. Look at that profile, as though marble should breathe! Bernini is a failure because he did not sculpt him. Michelangelo would destroy his David and start again, to see this new model.” Grantaire plays to the gathering crowd. “Ever after tonight you will speak and whisper about what you glimpsed, and fierce arguments will ensue. Some will swear a young God visited this bar. Others will insist it was a hero, crowned in laurel leaves. Still others will speak of a Disney prince--”

“That is quite enough, Grantaire.” Enjolras doesn’t have to try hard to appear red-faced and angry. “Let’s step outside and get some fresh air, and you can declaim me to the pigeons.”

Jehan offers, “I’ll go with him. When he’s like this--”

“No, it’s fine.” Enjolras claps Jehan’s upper arm, reassuring. Everyone is watching. “If Grantaire has topics he wishes to discuss with me, I’m all ears.”

“Ears like pink shells fetched from the sea that formed foam-born Aphrodite,” slurs Grantaire, reaching for one and missing.

Enjolras sets his mouth, gets a firm grip on Grantaire’s elbow, and marches them out. The crowd parts to let them pass, and Eponine and Cosette, only just coming in arm-in-arm, blink as they go by.

“Sad,” Enjolras hears Cosette say, and Eponine’s echoing hum; and he doesn’t know if they mean Grantaire too drunk, or Enjolras’ furious face, or if maybe somehow they could know about the fucking. 

Would they think it sad? Or maybe the girls think they should be fucking, and that it’s sad that they are not. Only -- Enjolras’ head hurts.

Outside, Grantaire is not too drunk. He leans conspiratorily against Enjolras. His eyes are bright, faceted: turquoise, sapphire, aquamarine. “Oh, well played! You’re a natural. Have you thought about Broadway in case the law doesn’t work out?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “That was completely over the top.”

“That’s my specialty,” agrees Grantaire, all smiles. “Anyway, it worked, didn’t it? We got the hell out of there, and no one’s the wiser.” He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, retrieving a cigarette and a light; he sparks it and takes a few calming drags. He peers at Enjolras through the hazy veil of smoke. “You did want to get the hell out of there, right?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras admits. “I did.” He admits it to himself: he didn’t go to surprise Combeferre and Courfeyrac, or to do shots and shoot the shit with his friends. He went to see what Grantaire would do, and to take him home. 

He fishes free his phone and taps out a message to Bossuet: R drunk. Taking him home. He’s fine, just needs a hand. See you in study session Tues. Thx for the drinks.

Enjolras holds the phone up to show Grantaire, who places a hand over his heart.

“But my reputation,” laughs Grantaire. 

“It’ll recover,” says Enjolras. “C’mon. Taking you home.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire, losing some of his smile, “you mean that literally?”

“Don’t you live around here?” They’ve never been to Grantaire’s; Enjolras has never been there, but the address is programmed into his phone, and he’s looked at it. 

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, definitely flustered now. “Not too far. It’s just--”

“Difficult roommate?”

“Totally,” says Grantaire, scratching the back of his neck, “but Bahorel’s still here. Probably won’t be home tonight.”

“So,” Enjolras prompts. Perversely, the more that Grantaire deflects the more Enjolras’ desire to see the space where he sleeps increases. This side of Grantaire, the details that comprise and compel him, have stayed hidden to Enjolras. He doesn’t know much more about Grantaire than what Grantaire declares for all the world to know. 

He does know what Grantaire likes to do in bed, and that his preference at present is to do those things with Enjolras. It’s convenient for them both, clearly, so they’ve never questioned it. 

Still, there are small things that now loom larger in Enjolras’ mind. To never have seen the inside of Grantaire’s apartment after having Grantaire share his bed so many nights is an odd imbalance. He doesn’t know how Grantaire lives at all, whether he is messy or neat (he suspects the former), whether he cooks or has a dusty kitchen, if he collects books or records or both.

“Yeah,” says Grantaire again. “About my place. If I’d known you were coming over…”

Enjolras shrugs, starting to walk in the direction the address had indicated. “I don’t care if you haven’t cleaned up.” He honestly doesn’t. It may not be his preference, but he’s not moving in. They’ll fuck and then he’ll go home. The place could be a pigsty, fine. They’ll roll in the mud.

“Nah,” says Grantaire, following with a more hesitant step. “Bahorel’s a lazy, kindly, wealthy bastard, and he prefers to employ a cleaning person to further trickle-down economics. We’ve just been dusted.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

“It’s --” Grantaire seems primed for a speech, chin up; just as abruptly he deflates. “I can’t really explain,” he says, falling into line next to Enjolras. “I guess I’ll have to show you.”

“Mysterious,” says Enjolras. He feels himself grinning, and it feels better than it should to be away from the bar with Grantaire at his side. Anticipation is making his heart beat hard. “Do you have a secret dungeon room?”

“Huh? No. An idea, though.” Grantaire’s eyes flick over sideways, untroubled again, teasing. “Are you into that idea?”

“I take the fifth,” says Enjolras.

They arrive at a generic sprawl of a tower building, once lower-income housing recently subdivided into space for students at three times the cost. In the elevator Grantaire punches the button for the top floor and turns to face Enjolras. He pulls the edge of his lower lip between his teeth and starts to talk fast as soon as the door dings closed.

“Okay, so,” says Grantaire, shifting his weight. “I know we’re casual and, like, in stealth-mode. That’s cool.”

Enjolras nods, cautious. They’ve never talked about the sex save to facilitate having more of it.

“Right,” Grantaire goes on. “I’m just reiterating that I know the score. It’s that I don’t want you to freak out. Freaking out is what I’d really like to avoid here.”

“Grantaire, I don’t--”

Grantaire unlocks the door to his apartment, ushering through a darkened living room that looks like other living rooms, to a room down the hallway. He draws in air, twists the knob and pushes open the door, flicks on the light. “I swear I’m not a serial killer.”

With this reassurance, Enjolras goes into the room. It’s small and cluttered, the clutter maintained in stacks. Books piled here, a heap of clothes there, sentimental detritus overrunning the desk. There is an array of band posters on the walls. There is an easel set up by the one window, and the stack of canvas beside it is the tallest of all. The wall by the easel is dominated by a giant board, on which a myriad of overlapping sketches and studies have been pinned.

They are gorgeously wrought, that is what Enjolras sees first. He had not known Grantaire was so talented -- he’s never shown the club any work at this level. Each piece is the body in abstract, Enjolras thinks -- a perfectly rendered collarbone here, a finely turned wrist there, the rise and fall of an Adam’s apple so well-drawn it threatens to bob; bright hair streaming across a whole page; an eye so delicately shadowed it seems to gleam; a mouth, full and petulant and rendered succulent. A mouth that is familiar.

Enjolras blinks, and his eyes sweep the board a second time, a third, fitting the disparate pieces together. All of the drawings are of him. Every line, every angle, countless hours of work, untold months of it: all to render him.

“What is this?”

“Oh, God,” says Grantaire, who has been fidgeting at Enjolras’ progression. “You so think I’m a serial killer. It’s, OK, so, I was thinking of using you as my final project model, but my paintings weren’t working, so I started a series of sketches, and that sort of -- became the project? A series of you in different parts. Christ, I swear I’m not this creepy. I was going to tell you -- I mean, I was going to ask for your permission and explain the project, once I was satisfied with the preliminaries. I never thought you’d want to come over here, or I’d have--”

“What? Hidden this?” Enjolras steps closer to the board, and Grantaire lets out an audible breath. “These are extraordinary, Grantaire.” 

“I -- what?” 

“You’re always downplaying your work, saying how much you suck or reporting that you failed because you failed to turn in an assignment. It’s clear to me that if you turned them in, you’d be getting As.”

“You can’t grade art. The marks don’t matter to me. Getting something done correctly does.” Grantaire shrugs, discomfort in the set of his shoulders. “You don’t mind?”

“Why should I? They’re quite flattering. You’ve found my best angles.”

“You don’t have bad ones,” Grantaire mutters. “I’ve looked. Closely.”

“You don’t have any drawings of my face,” Enjolras points out. “Lips, nose, eyes, disembodied -- can’t stand to look at me?”

“Can’t put them all together,” says Grantaire. “It never looks enough like you.”

“Would it help if I posed?” Enjolras asks. He turns away from the board and back to Grantaire. Unhesitant now, not freaked out so much as thrown that Grantaire is so concerned about his reaction, Enjolras reminds them why they’re here. He doesn’t want to look too closely at why he finds the pictures so flattering instead of invasive. Doesn’t want to look too closely at the evidence of Grantaire’s clear admiration, that it warms instead of chills him. He strips his sweater off and tosses it over the desk-chair. “I don’t have a lot of free time these days, but there’s no reason you couldn’t draw me if we’re both in the library, is there?”

“No reason,” says Grantaire, tracing the lines of Enjolras’ chest with his eyes. “Thanks, man.”

“Thank me by getting naked.”

“Can do.” Grantaire’s black t-shirt is peeled easily over his head. Grantaire’s bed is a big mattress on a low wooden platform in the shadows of the room. “You know, I’ve thought about you being here.”

Usually they don’t talk much. Generally they don’t. But there’s no harm in it that Enjolras can see. His heart beats harder. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” says Grantaire, managing to make his pants come off in the backward walk to the bed, an impressive maneuver. “Many times.”

“What was the favorable impression?” asks Enjolras.

Grantaire closes his eyes. “I could listen to you speak that lawyer way you do until I die.”

“That we cannot enact,” says Enjolras, reaching the bed. Clothes are easily pushed away and lost, until there is nothing between them but skin. Hungry from a long day of wanting this, he steps in, running his hands over Grantaire’s revealed body. 

He is so well-made, fitting just so at Enjolras’ chin, strong and fit from boxing and dancing, his smooth skin marked by the fading imprints of Enjolras’ fingertips, and his teeth. Enjolras’ hand ghosts the taut curve of Grantaire’s ass, then settles on his left hipbone, where beneath the tapered vee Grantaire has a tattoo of the solar system, each planet spinning in colorful orbit. 

If Enjolras thinks about how many times he’s mouthed the way from Earth to Mars he’ll blush. Instead he says, impatient, imperious, “Tell me how you thought about me here. How did you want me to fuck you in your bed, Grantaire?” 

It’s not the first time he’s asked Grantaire to state a desire, then followed through on it; this is the kind of dialogue both appreciate. 

Only for the first time Enjolras can remember, Grantaire is the one who hesitates. Enjolras can read him well enough by now to parse the mix of emotions his expression displays. For a moment, Grantaire’s lip curls, and he blinks twice, prepared to lie, too easily given away; then his mouth purses, and his eyebrows climb, and he tells the truth: “I didn’t want that.”

Enjolras swallows air.

Grantaire says, “I mean, of course, I want that. I’m up for that, anytime. I’m a big fan of that. Big, big fan. I just meant that I’ve --”

“I get it.” Enjolras holds up a hand, the one not on Grantaire’s hip. Because of that anchor his vision stays steady. He doesn’t need Grantaire to stop speaking. He just needs focus. “Tell me precisely.”

“I, uh.” Grantaire shifts his weight. He’s hard, they’re both hard, and they’re pressed flush together. Then Grantaire’s fingers move to circle around them both, and he starts to stroke. That’s new. Grantaire watches his hand’s momentum, speeds it. Enjolras rocks back on his heels and pushes forward, against the silky heat of Grantaire’s cock and Grantaire’s surrounding fist. “There’s lots of things.”

Enjolras is afraid he’ll have to prod again, but Grantaire is gathering breath. “I’m invested in the idea of memorizing your body with my tongue. It’s for artistic study. I want to suck your cock for so long that you’re incoherent with the need to get off, and when I won’t let you, I want you to hold me down and fuck my mouth. Most of all I want to fuck you; since you asked, I’ve had you every which way in my head, where you have quite played the strumpet.” Grantaire’s small smile at the end of this speech is daring, and it dares Enjolras.

Who finds himself smiling, of all things, in return. Does Enjolras want this also? Jesus. He must. All evidence indicates. His body’s response is enthusiastic, which Grantaire cannot miss. His cock is hard as ever, and there is a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. “Fine,” he says.

“Say again?”

“We can try -- what you said,” says Enjolras. “It’s only fair. I’ve been taking a dominant role, and by all rights we should trade off.”

“That’s -- that’s very egalitarian of you,” says Grantaire. He works his jaw, working through it.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to,” says Enjolras. “I --”

Grantaire is so fucking close. Grantaire is sealed to him, skin to skin. Grantaire has their cocks in a vice-grip. Grantaire smells like smoke and rye. The sight of him is all that Enjolras has thought about for twenty-four hours. If he thinks about it, he’s been thinking about Grantaire for much longer than that.

“I want to,” says Enjolras.

“Okay,” says Grantaire, blinking. “Right. Yeah. So, like--”

“Like I said, we can try it all.” Enjolras swears he doesn’t mean to bite his lip seductively. He doesn’t enjoy the idea of an uncertain wait. “But I wish you’d fuck me first instead of last.”

“I’m flexible,” says Grantaire, as though they’re making plans for dinner. Only his widening eyes and big pupils betray his surprise. “There’s no hurry. We’ll do whatever you want.” His hesitation is palpable. “This is what I wanted, though. You don’t--”

“Jesus Christ, Grantaire. Should I sign a permission slip?” Enjolras guides them to the bed, sick of standing. He goes down, and pulls Grantaire over and on top of him. It’s a reversal of the norm, but it doesn’t feel wrong -- only different, and exciting in anticipation of the unknown. He isn’t shaking. Not much.

Do they even have a norm? Because when Enjolras says, “You can do whatever you want,” to reassure him, Grantaire does something that he’s never done, which is to duck down and kiss Enjolras, smoothly and with just the tip of his tongue. 

Grantaire tastes like the gum he must’ve snuck after his cigarette, tastes like faded tobacco and spearmint. Enjolras opens his mouth to him.

The thing about kissing is that when it’s done well, nothing, not even excellent foreplay, revs you up more for sex. A good kisser telegraphs their prowess via lip. Grantaire is very, very good at kissing, knowing just how to wield his tongue, and he kisses Enjolras as though kissing were illegal and a way to get high, namely, Grantaire’s favorite thing. 

Enjolras pulls away gasping. He can’t breathe. He’s forgotten how to breathe. 

“Sorry,” mouths Grantaire against his mouth, looking not sorry at all. 

“Try again,” Enjolras manages. “You nearly got it.”

Grantaire dives back with vigor. To expend such space and time in kissing seems improbable until it’s happening. Lights go on and off Enjolras’ head and along his skin, which tingles. When you’re joined at the mouths bodies become fair game, and Grantaire’s hand finds and holds their cocks again, while Enjolras’ hands reach and have the new sensation of fixing Grantaire to the cradle of his body. 

Grantaire shows him that the pressure of lips and teeth need not be rough or hasty. Grantaire lingers, moving to lick the (pink) shell of Enjolras’ ear until he shivers, then lavishing slow suction along his neck and collarbone. Enjolras, used to being in charge, unused to such attention, pushes back against him shamelessly.

“What’re you doing?” He asks it, once, while Grantaire’s head is low on his chest, and his mouth is on Enjolras’ nipple, bringing it to an exquisite point. Enjolras is arched up from the bed, far as he can go without doing gymnastics.

“Fucking you,” answers Grantaire. 

It doesn’t sound flippant. Why does it feel like a reprimand? Is this what sex should feel like -- this, this intense, full-body exploration, all zones made erogenous? What were they doing before, when Enjolras was leading? A pale mockery. A pantomime. The machinations of an amateur. Enjolras thought he was capable in bed, but he didn’t know about this.

By the time Grantaire has opened him up with his too-clever hands Enjolras has even forgotten about his ego. There’s no space for it, only space for Grantaire’s slow-pressing fingers, and the incredible maneuvers they can perform. He didn’t know it felt like this, either. He frowns to think that he has never taken such care in Grantaire’s preparation. He cannot frown for long because his body is alight. He kicks out a leg in invitation.

Grantaire studies him. “You’d let me have you like this?”

“If you want to.”

“Have…” Grantaire pauses, like he doesn’t want to finish the line of thought. “...have you done this before?”

“Of course,” snaps Enjolras, with what little dignity is left to him at the withdrawal of Grantaire’s fingers. Then, “Maybe.” A heartbeat later: “No.” After that: “Does it matter?”

“Yes and no,” says Grantaire, but he kisses Enjolras again so they can communicate about it more productively. Midway through the kiss Grantaire presses the head of his cock to Enjolras’ entrance, teasing him with the pressure. It is a motion that feels familiar. The first few inches of penetration are the most important, Enjolras thinks, dazed to be on the receiving end, learning that he is right. 

Grantaire moves into him carefully, making every inch count. He tries to be gentle, but he is also firm, thrusting in even when the immediate reaction of Enjolras’ body is confusion. Grantaire carries them through, easing inside while he alternates kisses with murmured praises, until at last they are put together and there is nothing else to say. 

Even so Grantaire has an unending well of words, and Enjolras, speechless, is grateful; he has none left that are recognizable. “Ah,” Enjolras groans, and “oh, oh.” Once, he manages “Please.” 

“If this is my end, say that I went well,” says Grantaire. “They will say, he died doing what he loved.”

Despite himself, Enjolras laughs full-bodied, and the sound rolls over and relaxes him, so that Grantaire comes into his depths, bottoms out and holds, waiting for Enjolras to grow accustomed. The long hard length of Grantaire’s cock he’s appreciated so many times before is something else from the inside. Enjolras closes his eyes. There’s a smile on his lips from the laughter that Grantaire kisses.

“Go,” Enjolras begs.

Christ, God, every god, it’s so good. Does it feel this good to Grantaire, every time Enjolras is in him? Does it feel like this? Grantaire swivels his hips, and pulls out and back, then back in, hard, does it again, and again, a marathon in slow-motion, making each thrust thorough and deep. Grantaire braces himself against the bed, gripping a handful of sheet, keeping his rhythm steady. He grips a handful of Enjolras’ hair, and he looks into Enjolras’ eyes as he pulls it. He keeps pulling.

Grantaire is whispering in his ear. “You’re perfect. You’re so tight I could scream. God, do you want me to? Look at you. Perfect. I’ll do anything.” And because they understand each other: “Can I go faster?”

“Can you?”

“A challenge!” Grantaire’s expressive face above him is brilliant. He tests the speed of his thrusts, and Enjolras bites his lip. “Harder?”

“I’m skeptical,” says Enjolras, so that Grantaire nails him into the mattress. This goes on for some time. His wrists are as pinned. Grantaire catches them and keeps him down. Enjolras is caught. 

It may be the best he’s ever felt but that means it can’t last forever. Every time he moves, Grantaire’s cock sparks reaction, and from the smug look on his face he knows it. Enjolras has learned to spread wide and take him deeper, learned to follow Grantaire’s choreography; his head is mashed into the pillow and he fails to muffle his groans. They’re noisy anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s just another sound in the cacophony. 

“Touch me.” Enjolras’ moan is multi-fold. His wrists are still trapped. He moves back against Grantaire mindlessly, desperately. “I’m close--”

“Why should I?” The question isn’t made as an accusation -- is simply what it is, curious, as Grantaire noses along his jawline. It’s meant to be a tease, a provocation.

“Because,” Enjolras is panting, “because it feels so much better when you do.”

Grantaire reaches for his cock at once, stroking with just the right twists of his wrist. He’s learned. He knows every inch of Enjolras. Grantaire knows him. Enjolras tosses his head, and he lifts his legs and wraps them around Grantaire. One hand is free now, and if he scratches down Grantaire’s back Grantaire will drive into him even faster. He scratches and scratches. 

As he starts to unravel, Enjolras looks up at Grantaire above him. He thinks about what he said, the truth, that it feels impossibly better to have Grantaire’s hand on his cock than his own; and he thinks about all of the times he’s fucked Grantaire and barely touched him. 

Enjolras has been callous and cold compared to this. Granted, Grantaire had never asked much. Just took himself in hand like he didn’t expect any help from Enjolras. Enjolras didn’t contradict him. He had sex the way he knew how and the way that seemed easiest to walk away from in the morning. 

Now, full-up with Grantaire, with Grantaire in him and urging him on, Enjolras sees the error of his ways. All of Grantaire’s attention is focused in pursuit of getting Enjolras off first, because the best sex is about mutual accountability. Simply using each other isn’t enough, is empty. Grantaire keeps them in sync and equalized in pleasure, so that their bodies respond as one body. When Grantaire thrusts Enjolras receives him and pushes back and Grantaire thrusts in again, and on and on and on and on, until Enjolras cannot remember the time before they did this. 

“Yes,” Enjolras encourages. “Like that.”

Grantaire takes them over the edge, coaxing a cry from Enjolras as he gives in; Enjolras comes hard, his cock pulsing in Grantaire’s fist, his mouth open on his shout, the sensation unlike anything he’s known as Grantaire keeps them going, draws orgasm from a moment into an ongoing wave. It crashes from toe to crown and crests, reforms to wash over him anew.

“Let me come in you,” says Grantaire, close to his ear. “Let me.”

And Enjolras smiles. Dizzy, light-headed, breathless, he nods; he does not know the words, but he wants to feel it. Grantaire sighs, his hips stuttering, and he thrusts back in succession and spills deep. Grantaire is liquid heat everywhere, his sweat-slick skin glued to Enjolras’, their bodies merged. Grantaire’s forehead is pressing Enjolras’, Grantaire’s blue eyes are open and on him, Grantaire’s cock is pulsing within him. Grantaire’s clenching hand in Enjolras’ hair should hurt but sends lightning across his scalp. Grantaire drinks from his mouth.

Grantaire is barely breathing. Then he breathes, but shallowly. It takes a long time before he twitches into movement. “Wow,” he whispers. Then, “Here, let me--”

Pulling out reminds Enjolras that he’s new to this, and that he’s going to ache all week with the reminder. Grantaire is careful, though, and he reaches for a towel slung over the foot of the bed and cleans Enjolras off first, then himself. When Enjolras winces, lowering his legs, Grantaire rubs the muscle of his thigh. Small gestures, but Enjolras feels the now-familiar flash of guilt that he has never been so courteous with Grantaire.

So he says so. What else are they supposed to talk about? How good it was? How good it still is, lying warm in the afterglow, feeling well-fucked? (Feeling well-loved.) Enjolras steels himself. Says, “I’m sorry about the way I’ve been treating you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire, who looks thoroughly fucked and inordinately pleased with himself, pulls an incredulous face. He tries to deflect. They don’t talk about this. They haven’t. “Which way was that?”

“Like it didn’t matter that we were fucking,” says Enjolras, who prefers honesty. “Like it didn’t matter that it was you.”

“Right,” says Grantaire, “also ouch, my fragile ego.”

“It’s not true,” says Enjolras. He feels his pulse racing and the words coming without censor. They emerge inelegantly. “It does matter that we’re fucking. It’s all I thought about today since you left, and it’s the reason I went outside. You were all I could think about. I tried everything to avoid acknowledging it," Enjolras admits, "I did a hundred and fifty-eight pushups of avoidance. But the truth is that I didn’t want you to leave. I wanted you to stay until we went out to the bar. I wanted you there, Grantaire. I wanted you to tell me ridiculous stories, and to listen to my plans for the week and show me where I’ve overreached. I wanted you in my apartment. In my bed. I wanted you sneaking cigarettes and drawing at the desk. The shower was the worst." Helplessly, he shows empty hands. "If the earth can complete a rotation on its axis in twenty-four hours, I can realize that I've been living a lie. I have your favorite beer in my refrigerator. I want to pour it for you and scold you for drinking it.”

Grantaire’s smile dazzles, a sun through stormclouds; he tamps it down, though, leaving only cloudy, drifting eyebrows. “That’s -- that’s a lot of things to want.”

“I know,” says Enjolras. He swallows against the sudden knot in his throat. He’s never said anything like this, never bared himself like this, never _wanted_ so keenly before. It feels exposing and wonderfully freeing and terrifying. Grantaire isn’t throwing himself into Enjolras’ arms in response.

“We can try them all,” says Grantaire.

Grantaire knows Enjolras wouldn’t know what to do with an embrace. Enjolras isn’t the swooning, embracing sort. Grantaire knows to advance with caution. Grantaire says, “We could go on, like, a date. Dinner and a movie. Get crazy. And maybe have breakfast the next day. Try it out.” Next to him in bed, Grantaire props up on an elbow. He palms his free hand across Enjolras’ belly. “I’m into it.”

Grantaire’s caress tickles, making Enjolras laugh. “It’s a deal.” He’s thinking fast. “Let’s go out tonight.”

“A school night, Enjolras?”

“I’m all caught up.” Settling comfortably against Grantaire’s pillow, against Grantaire, Enjolras can’t banish his guilt. He’s never felt less inclined to move. “I shouldn’t have made you feel unwelcome. In the mornings.”

“I wouldn’t have known how to stay,” says Grantaire. But he looks like he registers the sentiment and is glad for it. He relaxes, too, letting the gravity of the bed pull them closer. “I’d like for you to stay tonight.”

“Try and kick me out,” says Enjolras. Grantaire’s hand is warm, splayed on his stomach, and the heat of his body parallel to Enjolras’ negates the need for a sheet. To chase away the last chill, he draws Grantaire’s arm across his chest. Then he adds, because that was too combative: “I wouldn’t move for anything.”

“What about for a legal committee independent of all special funding and political interests capable of indicting the true villains of the international stage?” 

“Well. How far-reaching in prosecutorial powers?”

Grantaire spends a while telling him exaggerated pieces of gossip about their friends and world events, and this speech is only interrupted by kisses, or by Grantaire’s lips fastening to his ear, or Grantaire’s mouth otherwise occupied, as he had promised. 

He studies Enjolras with his tongue for purposes of Art, and reports that his resulting sketches will be far more accurate. Somewhere therein Enjolras ceases to accurately record memories. He becomes an unreliable narrator. He's totally out of character, totally content.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. Sleep falls on Enjolras. 

In the middle of the night Grantaire wakes up for a cigarette on the fire escape. Enjolras wakes up also, and goes with him.


End file.
